


Edging

by flecksofpoppy



Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: Bloodplay, Cutting, Edgeplay, Gore, Guro, Knifeplay, M/M, Psychological Trauma, Self Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-03
Updated: 2013-08-03
Packaged: 2017-12-22 06:33:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/910029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flecksofpoppy/pseuds/flecksofpoppy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Noun [ej-ing]: 1. a line or border at which a surface terminates; 2. a brink or verge: the edge of a cliff; the edge of disaster; 3. any of the narrow surfaces of a thin, flat object: a book with gilt edges;  4. a line at which two surfaces of a solid object meet: an edge of a box; 5. the thin, sharp side of the blade of a cutting instrument or weapon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Edging

**Author's Note:**

> Someone I adore was having a shitty day, so I offered to write some horribly wrong fic for them. I hear that they liked this, so I am happy.
> 
> Here thar be: blood play, knife play, edge play, cutting, self-harm, explicit descriptions of violence, explicit descriptions of sex, gore, guro, psychological trauma.
> 
> And yes, I did steal my own meta.
> 
> If you’d still like to venture forth, please do. Once again: this fic is not for the squeamish, but for the record, everything IS consensual.

In his lengthy tenure as a reaper, Eric has been maimed, sliced, scratched and hit enough times that it’s par for the course now. Reapers don’t show injury, unless they’re sliced with a scythe, and even then they will eventually heal (it depends on the scythe and who’s wielding it).

The more experience and seniority the reaper wielding a scythe has, the more powerful their strike. Even someone like Eric wouldn’t stand a chance against another reaper with a century and a sharp scythe at their belt.

This is what makes Grell Sutcliff’s blows particularly lethal: his experience and passion. Tumultuous emotions are particularly noted for their ability to inflict far worse wounds than necessary to reap a soul. They’re all taught practical technique as exam candidates, but the lessons are designed to improve accuracy and defense, rather than instruction in how to land a deadly blow. On the occasion that demons or other unsavory beings are involved, it is generally assumed that with enough experience and technique, a reaper can stand his ground against other supernatural beasts. Scythes are the true equalizers, given that they’re the only implements throughout heaven and hell that can cut through anything – souls, as well as flesh.

Which is why Alan Humphries has become something of a regular at the London infirmary. The Thorns have been capable of cutting through his body on a direct route to his heart as only a reaper’s scythe has ever been able to. His immortal body is unable to heal from the wounds, and the Thorns have almost become part of Alan himself. They keep cutting, too, winding through him, as if dawdling on their journey in order to inflict as much suffering as possible.

There have been a few occasions when Alan has collapsed, and he’s had to spend the entire day resting to recover. Eric has been assigned to accompany Alan on his daily rounds him more and more frequently, until Alan is at the point of resentment. He refuses to admit that the real reason is the Thorns, even though he’s fully aware; it’s just never been officially stated.

One thing that initially surprised Eric, though – and Eric is rarely taken off guard – is that William T. Spears actually seemed to give equal weight to maintaining the strict schedule of the To Die List and tending to Alan’s well-being.

Alan has always been a valued staff member, and apparently, Will does have some sense of propriety. After all, he does put up with Sutcliff, and there’ve even been rumors that he’s put his own neck out in the past to save Grell from a fate worth than death... like Purgatory.

But never mind that. Eric is grateful for Will’s patience with Alan, and the fact that he didn’t just turn his back on the situation and yank Alan out of the field. Instead, he’s given Eric the opportunity to cover Alan and make sure everything stays up to snuff, however it’s done.

Apparently, Will also believes that Eric can handle his own workload in addition to some of Alan’s; he is correct in this assertion. There are some days when Alan can’t reap at all, and Eric takes his portion of the To Die List without complaint and does double duty.

It’s obvious that what Alan hates the most, though, is when he has an episode that requires bed rest, and gets stuck in the infirmary all day. It’s become routine during these times that Eric goes to retrieve him after he clocks out, and he regularly finds Alan curled up under a scratchy blanket on a squeaky cot.

It started as a rare occurrence that Alan needed entire days to recover; but then, eventually the incidents crept up to happening once a month, which has slowly become twice a month.

It’s rare to be injured in the line of duty, so to have a “regular” at the infirmary is new and fascinating. Alan confides in Eric that, although most of the staff there are well-intentioned, they treat him more like a captive, mystical creature than a reaper.

It takes Alan a few days to come around to the suggestion that he stay at Eric’s flat and give up living by himself. What changes his mind is when a rather brazen, new medical staff member asks Alan if he wouldn’t mind having a few harmless tests run on him, as it would benefit their research on the Thorns for future cases, especially since no one knows when Alan will expire.

Alan acquiesces to Eric’s suggestion after this, and that same brazen, infirmary staff member resigned from the London division soon after, citing “personal commitments” (this most likely had something to do with the fact Eric’s scythe is very sharp, and where Alan’s concerned, he’s got a short fuse).

When Eric helps Alan move his things, Alan is so mortified he can’t even speak. Eric doesn’t try to make him; instead, he slowly brings Alan around by cooking for both of them. After a few weeks, the tension in Alan’s face eases, and he starts to relax.

They never talk about their arrangement. It’s simple: when Alan is ill, he stays at Eric’s during the day, and when he’s not, he reaps with Eric during the day.

The biggest difference is that he’s always with Eric; but Eric realizes shortly thereafter that not much has actually changed. It’s been a long time now that he and Alan spend most of their free time together.

A few months becomes a year very quickly, at which point, Eric has given up hope on Alan ever recovering. But what _is_ promising is that Alan isn’t getting notably worse. The attacks have actually seemed to recede somewhat since Alan’s been living with Eric.

Alan says it’s Eric’s food; Eric just grunts, shrugs and changes the subject.

The truth is, Eric is the happiest he’s been in a long time having Alan around. He’s a welcome presence, and he’s brought along his entire personality. There are potted plants dotting the window sills, the shoes next to the front door are painfully neat and lined up, and there are no clothes strewn around the sitting room.

There’s one unfortunate day, though, when Alan has been rendered completely incapacitated. It’d started early in the morning, when he was retrieving his tea, and had fallen against the wall, gasping and clutching his chest.

Eric was at his side immediately, and ignoring Alan’s protests, picked him right up off the ground and settled him on the settee.

Alan had seized up again before he could voice his outrage, and it took him a full half-hour after the fact to convince Eric not to beg off shift and stay with him at the flat.

Eric had sighed, frowning mightily, but finally gave in. He’d left a few books on the table in front of Alan with some whiskey, and told him he’d left a plate in the ice box.

He tries to concentrate on his reaps for the day, and although he’s as efficient as ever, he nearly trips over his own feet to check his scythe into General and get back to the flat.

His heart eases upon finding Alan still lying on the settee, having fallen asleep while reading a book off Eric’s shelf. But Eric’s relief shifts abruptly when he bends to take the book out of Alan’s limp fingers.

Alan has a rather bad, fresh paper cut on his index finger that hasn’t healed. There’s a little dried blood, but it’s such a minor wound, he’d probably fallen asleep before it stopped bleeding.

Eric knows he needs to gather his composure before Alan wakes up, because Alan’s going to deny it. He’s going to protest, and say he doesn’t need help; it was like pulling teeth to get Alan to agree to come here, and even then, he had only done so by choosing the lesser of two evils. He’d opted for Eric’s because, as he put it, the lesser of two evils would be, “invading Eric’s personal space, but he if really had to choose between that and the infirmary, well....”

Eric puts the book down on the table in front of the settee, and turns to get himself a glass from the liquor cabinet. He pours himself two fingers worth of whiskey, and Alan stirs with the clink of the glass.

As Alan’s eyes flutter open and he gives a lazy smile upon seeing Eric, something in Eric’s chest aches so badly that it’s almost intolerable. For one moment, he wonders if it’s what the Thorns might feel like.

“How’s the book?” he asks abruptly, not knowing what else to say.

Alan’s eyebrow raises; Eric is terrible at hiding his feelings from Alan at this point. He can hide them from almost anyone else, but not from Alan.

“Fine,” he replies, cocking his head to the side curiously, “I fell asleep.”

“Whiskey?”

“Eric, what’s up?”

“Just offering a drink,” Eric grunts.

He sees a cautious look ghost over Alan’s face, and Eric realizes he must be radiating tension.

“Ta, but no,” Alan replies after a moment of awkward silence. He waits patiently for Eric to explain himself and his odd mood, but he doesn’t. He just stands there, drinking; the silence becomes brooding after a short time, and Alan sighs.

“Paper cut?” Eric finally bites out. It sounds harsher than he intended, almost as an accusation rather than a question.

Alan’s eyes widen. It doesn’t take him long to figure out the meaning behind the words, and he looks down at his finger.

“Yes,” is all he finally answers, bending his fingers into a fist to hide them from Eric.

Eric just sighs softly, but he doesn’t say anything.

Alan watches him curiously – and cautiously – as Eric pulls out a clean, white handkerchief from inside his jacket. He dips the corner into his glass, and realization washes over Alan’s face.

He doesn’t fight when Eric sits down next to him and takes his hand, dabbing the alcohol over the cut.

“If you’re not healing,” Eric says softly, “you have to—"

“I know,” Alan interjects, his voice angry as he seizes the handkerchief from Eric and finishes dabbing at the wound. He shimmies backwards on the settee so he’s as far away from Eric as he can get, glaring at the floor; there are tears in his eyes.

“Where else?” Eric asks simply.

“No.”

“Show me.”

Alan looks up at him, his eyes burning with anger and embarrassment, and he shakes his head.

“The infirmary doesn’t even know,” Eric guesses.

Alan looks away, and a tear tracks down his cheek.

Eric reaches out for him, and Alan doesn’t resist; he lets Eric close, and for the first time since contracting the Thorns, lets out a choked noise as he presses his face against Eric’s shoulder.

“Will you show me?” Eric asks softly.

Alan finally just nods, shuddering, but he doesn’t look at Eric.

Eric takes him into his own bedroom, and Alan can’t seem to even begin to get his shirt undone. He’s still wearing his pajamas since he’s spent the day mostly sleeping, recovering from the attack, and Eric takes control.

He directs Alan to sit down and calmly unbuttons his shirt, pushing it off his shoulders. There’s an abrasion next to his shoulder where he’d driven his scythe forward too hard during the collection of a particularly unruly cinematic record, still bruised. It’s from nearly a week ago.

Eric suddenly realizes what else he can expect under the fabric, right next to Alan’s hip.

Alan doesn’t even wait; he slides the bottoms down just enough for Eric to see the gash on his upper thigh.

The record had sliced into him, got him right in the leg, and he’d still reaped it.

What no one realized at the time was that he didn’t heal from it, the way their kind always does. 

“When was the last time you tended to it?” Eric asks calmly, forcing down the tremor in his voice.

“This morning,” Alan says softly. He cautiously lifts his eyes finally to look at Eric; the lack of reaction has eased his worry, and Eric just puts a hand on his shoulder.

“Get your kit off, then,” he says in a neutral voice. “I’ll do it.”

“No,” Alan replies simply. “I don’t want you to see me like this,” he suddenly shudders, breaking finally.

Eric doesn’t answer, just directs Alan onto his back to lie down; he goes without an argument, his eyes closed. Eric reaches out to brush some of the hair off his forehead, and Alan’s face contorts.

“I’ve seen you worse than this,” Eric says softly.

Unexpectedly, instead of drawing away, Alan turns his face toward Eric’s hand.

“I hurt everywhere,” he whispers, as if confessing a terrible secret.

Eric just nods and moves his hand to settle it very gently over the bruise at his shoulder, stroking his fingers over the mark with barely a touch, designed to be soothing.

When he moves to completely push Alan’s bottoms off, he doesn’t protest. Eric may have been exaggerating when he said he’d seen Alan in worse condition, but it’s an honest fact that they’ve both had to help each other on more than one occasion. Being naked in front of one another stopped being an issue after a few months of mentorship.

“Where’s the antiseptic?” he asks simply.

Alan tells Eric where to find it – discretely tucked away in the depths of his bag – in the extra bedroom he’s been sleeping in.

Eric retrieves it with some clean cloth and tends to the wound. It’s not as bad as it looks, because it’s at the final stages of healing.

“Come on, then,” Eric says softly once he’s done, “under the blankets.”

Alan shakes his head vigorously, sitting up abruptly, all traces of complacency vanished.

“No,” he says as he grabs his pajamas again, “I’m... I should go...”

Eric ignores him and pulls the bedclothes down, motioning for Alan to move and then pointing toward the clean sheets. He just had them laundered, and they’re soft and fresh.

“Lie down,” he says simply.

Alan just stares at him as if he’s insane.

“My bed is more comfortable,” Eric reasons. “You said you didn’t feel well.”

Alan bites his lip, his face flushed, as he finally gives a small shrug and gingerly lies back against the pillow.

Eric can see how exhausted he is, even though he spent the entire day resting, as his eyes immediately shut and he sighs.

The other bed he’s been sleeping in isn’t exactly the height of comfort, even though Eric took great pains to make the extra bedroom hospitable.

“Soft?” he asks quietly.

Alan nods, all the fight drained from him, as he turns onto his side.

Eric shrugs off his jacket, tie and belt, but leaves the rest of his clothes on as he rounds the bed to lie down on the other side on top of the quilt.

Alan is buried in the blankets now, and he immediately stiffens as Eric settles next to him.

But after a moment, unexpectedly, Alan says softly, “You don’t have to lie on the top.”

Eric makes a meditative noise in the back of his throat, but he doesn’t argue as he slides under the sheets next to Alan; the fabric feels nice against his bare feet.

Alan lets out a staggered breath when he feels Eric move forward, not quite pressing against him. What surprises Eric though, is when Alan moves to press _his_ back against Eric’s chest.

And all he can think about is Alan saying that he hurts everywhere, how he’s been hiding even more than Eric first thought, how humiliated he looks every time he needs help.

Alan lets out a quiet shudder when Eric starts to touch him, trailing fingers gently over his side, up to his collar bones, a soothing touch. When Eric murmurs the question of whether Alan wants him to stop, the answer is no.

Touching escalates into kissing, and Eric feels like he’s releasing his own set of hidden secrets when he presses his lips against the back of Alan’s shoulder.

He’s wanted this for far longer than he’s ever admitted, even to himself.

“First nice thing I’ve felt in ages,” Alan says softly.

Alan is extremely responsive, and then soothing touches also escalate, as Eric winds his hand down to Alan’s hip. 

Eric is surprised again when he feels Alan’s hand wrap around his and direct him lower; there’s a gasp, and then Alan lets out a breathless, high pitched sound as Eric starts to explore on his own.

“Feels good,” he whispers. “Eric...”

Eric presses his lips against Alan’s shoulder as he starts to stroke, wanting to give Alan something else to feel than simple ache. 

Alan starts to pant, letting out small, choked cries and desperate variations of Eric’s name, until it’s only, _“yes, yes.”_ His entire body tenses as he comes hard into Eric’s hand, and then he goes limp.

Eric gathers him up, scattering kisses over his shoulders and neck, and finally, Alan rolls over to face him.

They hold onto each other, and Eric murmurs quietly, “Tell me, next time.”

The cuts and bruises fade, and Eric learns what it feels like to go deeper than any wound, get inside in every way he can. 

When he’s inside Alan, he forgets about cuts and Thorns, and everything is perfect and so good, Alan’s arms and legs wrapped around him, kissing each other like they might run out of air.

The first time that Alan is seriously wounded again, it’s because he has an attack and gets nicked by his own scythe. Thankfully, it doesn’t pierce him all the way through, but it’s severe enough to warrant an emergency visit to Alan’s old friends at the infirmary.

Eric doesn’t give them time to get to the bottom of Alan’s injury – with serious wounds, especially involving scythes, it’s customary to patch even a reaper’s body if only to speed along the healing process – and he gets Alan out and back to his flat before too many questions can be asked.

Alan is completely incapacitated for days, his entire right side bandaged up; Eric learns more than he ever thought he’d need to about mortal medicine, how to care for badly injured bodies that need time to heal.

He waters Alan’s plants faithfully, brings him books, as Alan slowly makes his way around the flat. He’s out of commission for at least a few weeks.

One night, while lying in bed together, Eric makes the unprecedented suggestion of some exploratory activities that he’s never tried, and Alan laughs softly. The laugh immediately elicits a cringe from the pain in his side, and Eric kisses him, murmuring about how he won’t have to move at all.

He slowly kisses down Alan’s chest and stomach to his hips, and then slides his mouth over Alan’s cock. Alan moans and his hips jerk forward, which is followed by a sharp cry of pain.

Eric immediately draws back and sits up, switching on the light. He can see the bandages on Alan’s side slowly turning from white to a tinge of pink; the abrupt movement probably reopened his wound enough to bleed sluggishly.

Unexpectedly, Alan lets out a rather urgent, _“No,”_ to protest the interruption.

“What about...”

“I don’t bloody well care,” Alan says in a haggard voice. “I just want... I want...”

Eric smooths his hand over Alan’s leg and nods.

He can’t help but stare though, because the tinge of pink is fast becoming red, like a flower blooming, and Alan flinches.

Eric feels angry suddenly; anger at the Thorns for stealing everything from Alan, for making him claw his way through a body that no longer does what he wants, for distancing him from everything and everyone. The Thorns are like an entity that have forced Alan into an awful type of intimacy, one made of pain and suffering, placed at its mercy.

Eric refuses to accept that.

He stands up and Alan watches him curiously, his hand unconsciously going to his side as it bleeds; he scowls as soon as he realizes and drops it, as if determined to ignore the fact that he still has a serious injury.

Eric rifles around in the bedroom drawer... and oh yes, there it is.

It’s a large knife with a beautifully carved handle – not a scythe, but close. It was Grell’s gift to him when he made senior; it was hinted at that it held souls that were not righteously gathered. Eric thought it better not to ask, but appreciated the sentiment behind it... or at least Grell’s version of sentiment.

Alan’s eyes widen when he sees it, and Eric settles back on the bed. He wordlessly extends his hand to offer the knife to Alan, which Alan hesitantly accepts.

“When it hurts,” he says simply, “hurt me.”

“I...” Alan, for once, looks to be at a complete loss.

“When it hurts,” Eric repeats, “show me how much it hurts. And when we can’t stand it anymore, both of us will stop together.”

Eric can see Alan’s throat tighten, and he nods, staring at Eric with a look that could never quite be encompassed in a single word.

Eric resumes his place between Alan’s legs and bends to take his cock back into his mouth; he feels the cold tip of the metal edge against his shoulder, and when he starts to move, it pokes at him.

But Alan’s never been afraid to trust Eric, and when his hips jerk and he lets out a hiss of pain, he pushes the knife forward.

Eric feels a trickle of warm blood drip down his arm; the sear of pain courses through him and feels like fire. Alan swipes the knife from the edge of his neck right to the ball of his shoulder; it’s a shallow cut, but it bleeds profusely.

Eric just takes Alan deeper into his mouth, bobbing his head, satisfied when Alan gives a cry that isn’t from pain; but the two start to mix, when Alan’s back arches.

There’s a slash across his shoulders, messy and at an awkward angle from where Alan’s bent forward. It’s a circle of pain, as Alan’s bandages become sodden with blood, and Eric’s convinced that he’s got more blood on his own skin than sweat.

Eric can tell Alan’s about to reach his pain threshold, but then he gives a sharp cry and comes in Eric’s mouth, collapsing onto his back and dropping the knife against the sheets.

Eric is as weak as Alan is at this point, as he crawls up next to him, being careful not to jar his bandage, and wrapping his arms around Alan from the side.

He kisses his cheeks and forehead, and he knows he’s leaking blood all over Alan. But Alan just fumbles for him, pulling him close even through the slippery mess. There are tears on his cheeks and Eric strokes his face with his fingers.

“All right?” he asks.

Alan lets out a heavy breath and nods, closing his eyes.

Eric can already feel his body closing the wounds, healing up until the skin will be like new.

But Alan isn’t going to heal up instantly; his injury is worse than it looks, though. It’s just a little blood, not several serious knife wounds to his upper body.

“Let’s get cleaned up,” Eric says, pressing an affectionate kiss to Alan’s temple.

“You’re covered in blood,” Alan observes, and Eric gives a soft, surreal laugh and a shrug.

It had felt better than anything he can remember, knowing Alan was inflicting pain that was proportionate to his own, not bleeding all by himself with only the Thorns for company.

It’s the closest Eric’s ever felt to another cognizant being.

He stands and ignores Alan’s squeak of protest when he takes him into his arms, refusing to risk Alan withstanding further injury by walking after already having opened the wound.

Alan carefully removes the bandage to look at his own body, and Eric can tell he was right in thinking that it’s sluggish.

They clean up, re-bandage Alan, and fall into bed together.

= = =

The worse things get, though, the more it becomes an addiction.

It starts logically: when Alan feels pain, or withstands a physical injury, he shows Eric what it feels like. Sometimes, he cuts so deeply that Eric is surprised he doesn’t start to bleed out.

He asks Alan to cut designs into his skin, the silhouettes of flowers and trees – things that Alan loves, that Eric associates with him. Alan has steady hands, and he does as Eric asks. When Alan’s not watching, Eric carves the same things into himself, desperately wishing that he could keep the scars and marks that Alan’s given him.

Instead, they just do it over and over. 

It’s not always sexual. Sometimes, Eric will lie back and close his eyes, tears leaking out of the corners as Alan trails the knife over his skin, not even drawing blood. He never knows when it’s going to happen, until suddenly Alan will break the skin the slightest amount and drag it through just enough flesh to draw blood.

It’s torturous and slow, almost meditative, until Eric gets past the point of pain. Everything becomes wet, then: the tears on his face, the blood on his skin, and the wet lick of Alan’s tongue up his neck that turns into soft kisses. 

It’s the only time that Eric can weep openly.

Just when it seems like enough though, it never is. It’s his skin, the way it heals; the way that Alan’s doesn’t.

Eric gets more desperate, and finally, he tries something new that even he can’t heal so quickly from.

He takes Alan’s scythe, and asks Alan to cut him with it.

Alan has a hesitant, skeptical look on his face, but he does as asked.

Eric lies on the bed and Alan hovers over him; he experimentally drags the live edge over Eric’s arm, and it immediately splits open. The cut is so precise and sharp, barely any force to open the skin, that it doesn’t even bleed for a moment.

Eric shudders and he can feel a grateful smile cross his face, but when he opens his eyes, Alan is staring at him in horror.

“It’s not healing,” is all he says, shaking his head.

Eric just nods. The blood keeps coming, dripping down his arm and he holds out his other arm for Alan to lie down next to him.

“No,” Alan says, an edge to his voice sharper than even a scythe. He goes and gets the bandages they usually use for him, and ties on around Eric’s arm.

By the next morning, it’s healed, and when Alan’s still asleep, Eric cuts himself again.

= = =

Eric is alone in the sitting room, and everything is far too quiet.

Alan’s managed a full day at the office and is catching up on paperwork, and so Eric starts his nightly ritual.

He does it with Grell’s knife, which seems appropriate given its inferred checkered past of murder and mayhem, and he starts to makes notches up his arm. He uses the knife and not a scythe so that Alan won’t know, but he needs to do it.

The first one starts at his finger, the same place he first noticed the paper cut on Alan; he slices through his fingertip, and a bead of blood forms. He keeps going, hacking in small, precise tally marks.

By the time he gets to 400, there are tears in his eyes. The pain is almost unbearable, and there’s hardly any blood; he cuts shallowly, so it leaves a raw, pink incision, but not deep enough to bleed profusely. The more he’s done this ritual, the better he’s gotten at it – both at harvesting souls, and at marking himself with the sin. It gets to the point, much like murdering, that he doesn’t even feel it anymore; it’s just a fire that whips across his skin, blind pain, all consuming and all over him, a thick fog of heat.

Today, the final stroke ends at 900. He times it perfectly, as the knife goes back in the drawer, thoroughly cleaned, and his arms heal up within minutes.

The doorknob turns, and Alan walks in. He takes one look at Eric and goes to him.

“What is it?” he asks with concern.

Eric just shakes his head and tries to smile.

“Long day,” he says simply.

When he grabs Alan and pulls him close, whispers that he wants him, Alan is the one who pulls him into the bedroom.

But there’s something a bit different about it, and Alan knows it from the look on his face.

By the time they’re fucking, they’re face to face, Alan on Eric’s lap. They move slowly together, and Eric whispers about how he needs to be closer. Alan’s fingers – fingers that are so easily capable of necessary violence; of loving, tender violence – stroke Eric’s cheek.

“What do you want me to do?” he whispers, slowing down even more.

Eric hands him the knife which he’s kept nearby.

“Put this inside me,” he says, not even recognizing his own voice, “put it in my shoulder, and leave it there.”

He doesn’t want to heal; he wants to have something painful stuck in him, like Alan with the Thorns, to know what it feels like to not heal.

And in all of that: to finally know how Alan feels and surpass it, to be inside him, to replace the Thorns and pain, to settle at his center.

The knife goes clean through Eric’s shoulder as Alan drives it forward without question; it slides easily (he’d sharpened it before), and there’s actually a spurt of blood this time. The blade is embedded in his body, and Alan gets close as they start to move faster together.

The pain is making Eric dizzy, and in his blurred vision, he sees only Alan. He feels only Alan, recognizes that one thing in the world of darkness and pain and blood. He feels it and sees the light that exists there, that one moment of connection when they both come, and Alan crumples against him, and they’re both shivering with pain.

Eric lies down with him, his body desperately trying to close around the knife, and holds onto Alan desperately.

The last time, the last tally mark, he’ll make with Alan’s scythe.


End file.
